


this is a white heart heat when you get next to me

by perissologist



Series: Pop Psychology [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Angst, Dick makes even the worst things better, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, emotional makeouts, post-Death of the Family, sexual tension by the boatloads
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 15:50:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,801
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4311198
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perissologist/pseuds/perissologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason roughly clears his throat, forcing himself to drop his gaze from Dick’s bare back to the assortment of items gathered on the table. “I can’t believe you want me to groom you,” he mutters, trying to make his voice sound as disgruntled as possible. “Guess you’re just a regular prize showdog, huh, Dickiebird?”</p><p>Dick laughs, the sound much softer and warmer than any sound, in Jason’s indignant opinion, has the right to be. “I just need a little help, Jay,” he says, voice curling fondly around the familiar nickname. “It’s kinda been harder than I thought to keep neat with four broken ribs.” </p><p>Or: Dick's grin makes everything better.</p>
            </blockquote>





	this is a white heart heat when you get next to me

**Author's Note:**

> Set post-Death of the Family; how I wish these stupid broken boys had made things okay between them.

The morning light that falls through the stylishly narrow windows of Jason’s loft is as pale and watery as the rain drumming in fierce, steady tempo against the outside of the high-rise, splashing the wood-beam ceilings, undecorated walls, and shirtless Boy Wonder inside with dappled flashes of shifting illumination. Dick perches, still as a bat, on a stool in the space between the kitchen and sitting area of the open-floor apartment, wearing nothing but a pair of sweatpants slung low on his hips and the bandages wrapped around his torso, hunched slightly inwards in the pose that Jason hates knowing means that he’s lost in thought. Behind him is a folding table holding an electric hair clipper, a shaving razor, a pair of shears, and a bottle of shaving cream, and Jason, in a worn t-shirt and loose jeans, arms across his chest and something twisting in his stomach at the way the light and shadow chasing itself across Dick’s bare shoulders makes him look almost ethereal in the sparseness of Jason’s downtown safehouse. 

 

Jason roughly clears his throat, forcing himself to drop his gaze from Dick’s bare back to the assortment of items gathered on the table. “I can’t believe you want me to _groom_ you,” he mutters, trying to make his voice sound as disgruntled as possible. “Guess you’re just a regular prize showdog, huh, Dickiebird?”

 

Dick laughs, the sound much softer and warmer than any sound, in Jason’s indignant opinion, has the right to be. “I just need a little help, Jay,” he says, voice curling fondly around the familiar nickname. “It’s kinda been harder than I thought to keep neat with four broken ribs.” 

 

The fist that had closed itself around Jason’s insides the moment he stumbled out of his bedroom to find Dick shirtless in the middle of his safehouse gives a sharp twist at the mention of Dick’s injuries, but Jason swallows it down and reaches for the electric clipper, flipping it on; he doesn’t miss how the buzz of the clipper whirring to life makes Dick involuntarily twitch. “You really dumb enough to let me near your throat with this thing, Grayson?” _After what happened down there?_ He shudders as the sense-memory of slamming his fist against Dick’s jaw comes rioting back, ruled by the wild, uncontrollable laughter that bubbled out of his chest. Even now he can still feel the rabid rage and fear and bloodlust that burned through his mind like a wildfire razing all rational thought to the ground, the smile that stretched wide across his face and the faces of the people that he, no matter how reluctantly, considered family. He grits his teeth, fingers clenching around the handle of the clipper, trying not to be sick.

 

Dick shrugs, the lightest rise and fall of his shoulders. “I trust you, Jay,” he says, and Jason almost wants to flinch; he’d consider throwing the clipper at Dick and letting it rip into the lean muscles in his pretty back if the thought doesn’t actually make him a little nauseous. Dick somehow seems to sense Jason’s discomfort and quips, “There isn’t much glory in offing a guy with the electric clipper he gave you to cut his hair, even for the Red Hood.”

 

Jason snorts, relieved yet disappointed at the same time, and closes his eyes, forcing himself to take a steadying breath and let the clawing terror that still accompanies that night in the sewers drain away. “You overestimate my basal levels of arousal, Boy Wonder,” he retorts, but when he places his hand on the back of Dick’s neck, pushing up the hair that falls to his nape, his touch is gentle. “How short do you want it?”

 

“Don’t care,” Dick replies.

 

Jason rolls his eyes and brings the clipper in, eyes narrowing as he runs it up the back of Dick’s neck. He pares off the hair so that it’s not too short, the ends curling just below Dick’s ears (the entirety of Arkham could beat him bloody before he admits that he likes how boyish and carefree Dick looks when his hair is long enough to curl); then he trims the sides before switching the clipper out for the shears, cleaning up the back and sides before moving around to the front. Dick sits perfectly still, breathing soft and steady, and a part of Jason almost resents that there isn’t even a hint of tension in Dick’s shoulders. The other part floods with liquid warmth, like a shot of brandy on a cold day that begins to burn away the lingering dread that’s gnawed at the heels of Jason’s every waking moment for the past four months. Jason blinks and yanks himself out of his thoughts, aggressively clears his throat and sets to work on the mop atop Dick’s hand. He snips at the mess of feathery black hair until the longest of Dick’s half-curls rests above his eyebrows as Dick sits there quietly, the shorn locks covering his shoulders in a fine layer of hair. Jason hesitates, then roughly sweeps his hand over Dick’s chest, clearing away some of the fallen hair before returning to the table and tossing down the shears. He glances back, his eyes falling to the stubble that’s begun to dust Dick’s neck and jawline. “You want me to take care of that proto-beard you got going there while we’re at it?” 

 

Dick starts, reaching up to trace his fingers over his chin, as if he hadn’t realized that he’d started to grow visible facial hair. He turns to grin over his shoulder at Jason, and Jason’s skin absolutely does not tingle at the way Dick’s crystal-blue eyes seem to glow in the pearly light of the rain. “Yeah, sure; I don’t think I really pull off the rugged look well.”

 

Jason snorts for the second time and begins to suspect that it’s some sort of defense mechanism against Dick’s offensive face. “You, Boy Wonder?” he says sarcastically and picks up the cream and the razor, depositing a dollop of cream in his palm before moving around to Dick’s front again with the razor. “Tilt,” he commands, and Dick does as told, tilting his chin up to expose his neck. Jason smooths the cream over Dick’s stubble and lifts the razor, placing his free hand on the back of Dick’s head, thumb pressing down just underneath his chin, and rests the edge of the razor against the delicate tracheal ridge of Dick’s throat. He can’t help but look up, expecting Dick to tense, but Dick remains utterly relaxed, looking down at Jason from glowing half-lidded eyes. And suddenly Jason is hyperaware of the smooth warmth of Dick’s skin beneath his fingers, the soft ridges of the silvery scars that span Dick’s torso, the shadows that Dick’s eyelashes cast on his cheekbones when he blinks. Outside, the rain has intensified into a storm, thunder rumbling just close enough to permeate the walls of the loft. Jason sucks in a sharp breath and forces his attention back to Dick’s throat, pouring every ounce of his focus into keeping his hands steady as he drags the razor through the shaving cream. He clears the cream on one side and coughs, hating how rough his own voice sounds when he repeats “Tilt”; Dick does, tipping his head to one side to bare his throat to Jason. By the time Jason has scraped away all of the stubble on Dick’s neck, his breathing is more unsteady than the man with the razor held to his jugular. He’s hit by the sudden urge to rub his thumb over Dick’s throat, to feel the vibrations of that soft laugh in his voicebox; instead, he pulls away, forces out a slightly cracked “All done,” and sidesteps Dick to return the razor to the table and move into the kitchen, grabbing a towel to clean the excess shaving cream from between his fingers.

 

He turns and suddenly Dick is there, pressing into his space, crowding him back until Jason’s spine hits the counter. He looks how he did when Jason used to call him _prettyboy_ , the word rolling off his tongue with a mocking edge to hide how much Jason meant it. How he felt like white-hot lightning was carving his insides hollow whenever Dick gave him that electric grin, the one touched with fondness at the corners that made his eyes glow impossibly blue. Jason swallows, raises his eyebrows to hide how Dick caught him off guard. “You okay there, Dickiebird?”

 

Dick just nods and _oh god, he’s doing it, that_ fucking _grin_ , and suddenly Dick’s mouth is on his, the kiss soft and warm, and Jason freezes, thoughts shorting out. He stands there, stock-still and eyes wide, everything jumping into overdrive at the heat of Dick’s body pressed against his; when Jason doesn’t respond, Dick instantly pulls back, the grin gone and replaced by a crease in his forehead, shameful and apologetic all at once. “Shit, Jay—I’m sorry, I didn’t—I mean, I thought—”

 

And Jason comes to his senses, grabs Dick by the waist and pulls him in to kiss him like he’s a drowning man and Dick can give him air. Jason can _feel_ that stupid grin as Dick melts into him, reaches around to slip his hands into Jason’s back pockets, tugging their hips together as he licks into Jason’s mouth. Jason groans like he’s dying and Dick outright _laughs_ , the _asshole_ , and retracts his tongue, instead slots his lips between Jason’s own, grazes the inside of Jason’s mouth with the sharp edge of his teeth. They break apart, breathing heavily, and Dick ducks his head to nudge at Jason’s neck; Jason instinctively mirrors Dick’s way of tilting his head and Dick latches his lips onto Jason’s throat, drawing a wounded noise from his victim. Jason swallows, panting, his fingers digging into Dick’s hips as he groans again, a curse and a prayer: “ _Dick_.”

 

Dick pulls back, and those famous blue eyes are dark and hooded, and Jason curses again because fuck if that isn’t the most incredible thing he’s ever seen. He licks his lip and Jason’s eyes track the movements, so he knows exactly what Dick is saying when he announces, nonchalant as can be, “ _Great_ haircut, Jase.”

 

Jason just stares at him, too incredulous to speak; then he barks out a laugh because _who even is this idiot?_ “You’re such a fucking dork, you know that?”

 

Dick gives Jason a smirk that goes straight to his gut before he leans in and rests their foreheads together, eyes glowing. “Still want me, Todd?”

 

Jason shakes his head and feels a grin of his own tugging on his lips as he reaches up and tangles his fingers in Dick’s new haircut. “Still want you, Grayson.”

 


End file.
